


shiver shiver

by januarys



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarys/pseuds/januarys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not actually the Shores that’s making Michael itch: it’s Trevor fucking Phillips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shiver shiver

**Author's Note:**

> So. PWP because Michael bitches too much about the heat as per my headcanon, so Trevor takes matters into his own hands. Consequences be damned! Also _wow_ I hope this is alright and I will check for errors later, so they're all my own! c:

The Sandy Shores are anything but a Shore but they’re _sandy_ and it’s makes Michael itch in all the wrong fucking places.

Regardless of the fact that Los Santos and Sandy Shores are underneath the same sun, the heat is different out here and it really fucking blows. There’s no relief from open daylight to closed-in shade, no consistent fresh water because the Alamo Sea is toxic as fuck and needs to ruin everyones life and _god_ , the fresh stench of unwashed redneck in the middle of the day is the stuff of nightmares.

Also the stuff of nightmares is middle-aged, fucking post-ironic, in-denial psychotic _hipsters._ Hipsters who think it’s perfectly okay to walk around in tighty-whities that probably haven’t seen a laundromat since they were stitched together in a sweatshop back in Bangladesh.

 _Eight years ago_.

It’s not actually the Shores that’s making Michael itch: it’s Trevor fucking Phillips.

“God-fucking-damnit,” Michael rasps as he’s sprawled out on the balcony of Trevor’s shack. “Who ever fucking decided that deserts in the middle of nowhere would be a _brilliant_ fucking idea, then please for the love of God let me reach down that cocksuckers throat and pull out his goddamn insides with my bare hands.”

Trevor throws Michael a filthy look from his perch and leans back against the steps, tighty-whities not really concealing anything at all. “Quit your whining princess. The heat builds _character_.”

“No,” Michael raises his head slightly to glare back at Trevor. “The heat is what makes the rash from all the fucking sand wedged in every fucking crack of my body become even more fucking irritated, you prick.”

“Not my fault you didn’t wipe your ass.”

“The toilet doesn’t even _work_.”

“Like I _said_ ,” Trevor drawls, and Michael flips him the bird.

The sun burns white-hot around them, reflecting the bright sand with enough glare to turn a man blind. It’s too hot to argue any further but Michael is a stubborn bastard so he shoves Trevor with the ball of his foot and claims that as a victory. The heat affects Trevor as well because the most he does is swat Michael’s leg with a clammy hand and groans, before sinking further into his position.

Not that Michael even feels sorry for the bastard anyway. It’s Trevor’s fucking fault that he’s out here in the first place because at least back in Los Santos there’s a mansion with roaring AC sitting pretty in the middle of Vinewood waiting for him.

Sure, the place is a little empty and hollow without his family and being alone isn’t exactly swell for Michael’s waning sanity - but it’s so goddamn hot that Michael doesn’t give a shit right now.

A few minutes pass and Michael concedes defeat to the nature of the outdoors so he heaves himself into a sitting position. Sweat drips from his brow, the back of his neck, his torso, his armpits, his fucking _balls_ and god-fucking-damnit there’s even more sand shoved right up his-

“Just go inside!” Trevor growls. “You and your fucking bitching is getting on my _nerves_.”

Michael obeys even if he had already planned to get the fuck away from Trevor and the stinking heat of the day. He unbuttons his shirt and wipes himself down before he throws the polyester material at Trevor’s slack form.

“Think of the children you bastard,” he says as he heads inside and _fuck_ , it’s even hotter in here.

Michael feels like a hunk of roast turkey inside of the shack because the sun beats down on the thin metal walls and ceiling just to suffocate the room of anything remotely related to cold. He sees Patricia tucked away in Trevor’s bed, still wearing her purple tracksuit, and thinks that some people are just as insane as the company they keep.

Michael lowers himself down onto Trevor’s couch with caution and disgust because the thing smells like a fucking manure plant and butcher’s shop all-in-one but it’s that one-degree difference between standing up and lying down so Michael breathes through his mouth and lies back. He tries to message Franklin but his phone overheats and switches off automatically and it takes Michael every ounce of his waning strength to not pelt it straight at the wall.

He falls asleep in a puddle of sweat and the scent of ammonia-drenched cattle filling his senses.

  

*

He wakes up to the weight of sweaty limbs on top of his already scorched skin, and it takes Michael a few seconds to realise that Trevor is right on top of him.

Seriously.

He’s all stretched out and taking up every inch of the couch and Michael’s body as well and it’s _not cool_ because 1) Trevor smells like fuck and 2) his mouth is resting on Michael’s collarbone and his crotch is dangerously close to-

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Michael tries to shove the other man off of him to no avail. “Get your lanky white-ass off of me!”

“Oh _shut the fuck up_ ,” Trevor breathes and Michael tries to stop the shudder from his warm breath across his collar. “You’ve been bitching _for-fucking-ever_ and I’ve had enough of your fucking PMS-ing.”

Then Trevor fucking _grinds_ against Michael, their crotches rubbing together and Michael tries to find composure by grabbing Trevor’s bony hips (because seriously, the guy is skin and fucking bones) to push him away. He doesn’t manage to stop the small groan that passes his lips though, and Trevor smirks.

“I still got it Mikey,” Trevor says and he presses his mouth against the base of Michael’s throat, who almost shrieks in response to Trevor’s hot mouth against his skin. “And I’m _pretty_ sure you need it too.”

Michael can’t really manage anything more than a breathless _fuck you_ and scrapes his fingers against Trevor’s ribs. He tries to grip onto him harder but Trevor wraps his fingers around Michael’s wrists and traps them against the couch.

“You’re all fucking wound up from this goddamn heat,” Trevor growls as Michael squirms underneath him. “and I know for a fact that this’ll loosen you _riiiiight_ up.”

Michael manages to pull back and shoot Trevor a look. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Except Michael _does_ know what the fuck Trevor is talking about because when you’re young you just do stupid shit without thinking about the consequences and Michael wishes that he had been a lot smarter back then. Mainly because he wouldn’t be in this situation now, what with Trevor on top of him and rubbing their fully-clothed dicks together like they’re a pair of fucking teenagers.

“You _know_ ,” Trevor drawls. “Back in North-fucking-Yankton! You were so damn strung up after every other job that-”

“Oh no. No, no, no, you _know_ that I was higher than the fucking clouds back then. It meant nothing and it _still_ means nothing now.” Michael can’t shake Trevor’s grip from his wrists and if the prick pushes up against his dick _one more time_ -

Trevor scoffs, nipping at Michael’s collarbone just because he probably feels like it. “God, what are you today? A pre pubescent teenage girl? Are we going to talk about our feelings and braid each other’s hair, sweetheart?”

“You haven’t even got any left.”

“Fuck you,” The look in Trevor’s eyes is almost predatory and Michael’s dick twitches with the knowledge that the look is just for him. “Now lie the fuck back and think of Los Santos, sugar.”

It ends up that Trevor really _still_ fucking has it, whatever the fuck he even had in the first place, because his mouth does pretty fucking awesome things all the way down Michael’s body. Of course Michael doesn’t exactly want to think about _where_ exactly Trevor’s mouth has been but right now it’s his tongue tracing his nipple, his teeth gnawing softly at the sensitive area, and then Michael gasps when Trevor licks a map onto his stomach.

“Bit more room than last time,” comes Trevor’s muffled voice against his skin, and Michael frees his hands from Trevor’s slackened grip to tug at the fucker’s hair. Trevor’s laugh against his stomach goes straight down to Michael’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael breathes out and Trevor manages to maneuver himself on the floor between Michael’s legs, his fingers making quick work of Michael’s cargo shorts, and that predatory smile enough to make Michael sweat again.

It’s like Trevor’s robbed the Union Depository by the expression on his face when he frees Michael from the confines of his shorts, his cock already half hard. A kid in a candy store, a thief in a gold vault, and Michael wants to see that expression all the fucking time. His shorts are shucked down to his ankles and Trevor’s hands come up to grip Michael’s thighs, around the curve of his ass, before settling on his hips and pressing gently.

“Easy sugar,” Trevor whispers against the skin of Michael’s thigh, stubble scratching slightly, and then he’s wrapped a hand around Michael’s cock to stroke it ever-so-fucking-gently. Michael bites into his hand to hold back the moan that threatens to burst from his throat (because Patricia is in the next fucking room and the door is wide open, if not torn off its hinges anyway) and jerks into Trevor’s touch.

Then Trevor’s lips are wrapped around his cock, his tongue working every angle and nerve, teeth scraping gently against the flesh, a low hum in his throat that brings everything back to this moment. Trevor’s mouth is hotter than the midday desert sun, his hands clammy against Michael’s skin, and all Michael can do is just let the rush of fucking white hot pleasure drown out his senses and make him forget everything he knows.

Michael trails his fingers through Trevor’s hair (he does have enough for _this_ anyway) and holds on for dear life. Trevor is a little giddy beneath his grip and he takes Michael _pretty fucking deep_ to the point that Michael can’t hold back the moan, doesn’t care that he feels so fucking hot with the desert heat beating down on the shack around them.

Michael wants, he _wants_. He wants this all to be over so he can stop jerking further into Trevor’s clinch. He wants this to never end because it’s exactly like he remembers it over a decade ago: in the backseat of the getaway car, hands everywhere and the pit in his stomach growling with fucking _needwantneed_.

“G- _god_ ,” Michael gasps as Trevor hums into his cock like it’s a fucking opera, and then it’s Trevor that holds his hips down against the couch, keeps him steady as Michael gives up all aspects of control and lets it the fuck go. Trevor rides him through it, just like he always has, and Michaels still seeing stars as Trevor tucks him back into his shorts all neat and proper, a look of satisfaction across his face.

“Better now, Mikey?” Trevor asks as he leans over to press his lips against Michael’s clammy brow, and Michael really fucking is better because the heat doesn’t affect him as he tries to catch his breath and he just feels _fuckin' A_.

Michael doesn’t trust himself to form coherent sentences right now so he wraps his hand around the back of Trevor’s head to press their brows together. They’re quiet for a moment and it’s fucking _bliss_ because Michael is sated and truly-fucking-wonderful in that minute. His mansion with crisp and cool AC has nothing on this.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks T,” Michael murmurs softly and then Trevor is the one with enough audacity to pull back after a second, maybe two, before he stalks back out of the shack.

“One time only, sugar-tits!”

“I’d say fuck you but I’m too tired, hey. _Fuck_ , I’m going to feel that tomorrow morning.”

“Not my fault you’re an old motherfucker now.”

“We’re almost the same age, dick.”

“Like I _said_.”


End file.
